


adored

by touchstarved



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Mild Painplay, Multi, No beta we fall like Crowley, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Threesome, Top Aziraphale, bottom reader, happy quarantine, like actually unedited, smutty smutty smut, sorryyyy, top crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23405089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchstarved/pseuds/touchstarved
Summary: You always knew it would feel good to have Crowley’s hands around your throat.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Reader, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)/Reader, Crowley (Good Omens)/Reader
Comments: 28
Kudos: 122





	adored

**Author's Note:**

> gender-neutral reader (and no y/n used, i'm p sure!)

You always knew it would feel good to have Crowley’s hands around your throat. 

It feels even better to have those suspicions confirmed in real life.

He’s sitting on the chair in the dark cave of his office, you on his lap. He’s not squeezing—not yet—but even just the sensation of it, the slight drag of his palm against your neck, the way it forces your head up at a not-quite-comfortable angle, is enough. 

For now.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.” His eyes are swallowed by the yellow irises, his slitted pupils full-blown and _hungry_. It makes you inhale sharply just to see. The hunger. The wanting. Sharper, still, when he tightens his hold on your throat. You’re aching and shaky already, your hips just barely grinding into his without your even realizing it. “Tell me.”

Your eyebrows knit together even more, the way they always do when you’re about to cry.

 _I can’t_ , you want to say. _I don’t know how._

Before Aziraphale and Crowley, you had a less-than-optimal track record with honesty in bed. Everything from lovers who ignored you in their haste to reach their own ends, to partners who had been not-so-subtly judgmental of your desires when you did choose to open up. You’re unlearning it, day by day. The two of them are coaxing it out of you. But it’s taking time.

Pulse quickening. Lower lip trembling—you bite it in an attempt to stop, but all that does is draw his eyes to your mouth. 

You don’t say anything. But it’s if he can read your mind, because his hands slide up on either side, so that instead of holding your throat, he’s now cradling your cheeks. Your own hands move to cover his, fingers interlocking as he draws you closer, closer, into a single kiss, deep and daydream-soft. 

He pulls back first. “You can do it.” His eyes are still full, but somehow tender, too. “Tell me.”

You force yourself to keep eye contact with him the whole time. No closing your eyes, no looking away, no backing out as you whisper your request. 

He doesn’t react at all, at first, save for a brief pause before he repeats it back to you: “Make it _hurt_?” 

You nod.

It would be easy to mistake the shift behind his eyes for anger, if it weren’t for the crinkling that follows, crow’s feet deepening alongside the upward curl of his lip. “Alright, then.”

You barely have time to even _consider_ what sort of things he’s planning before he has you on your feet, spun around and bent over the desk with your palms and cheek pressed flat against it, and his fingers on your waist, and—

“Did you think it was clever, sweetheart,” he hisses, tightening his grip on you, “trying to tempt a demon?” You let out a sigh as he pulls you back, slightly, so that your arse is flush against his hips. 

“I must say, at first I thought you had no idea what you were doing.” The appearance of the new voice isn’t exactly a surprise—but you take in a sharp breath of pleasure all the same as Aziraphale enters your peripheral vision, standing just a few feet away. “Waltzing in here, looking so _innocent_ , all red-cheeked and soft-eyed—”

“Yes,” Crowley growls in agreement. And with that, you feel the first blow of his palm against your bare bottom. Light, more of a swat than anything else, but you shiver in pleasure at the promise of it, the anticipation of future pain. 

He delivers a few more smacks at that same intensity, keeping it relatively gentle so as to ease you in. Aziraphale takes a few careful steps forward, as if to inspect Crowley’s work. “You turn the _prettiest_ colors, don’t you, darling? Already so pink for us.” After the last, Crowley runs his hands over the already-sensitive skin. “Speaking of colors…”

“Green.”

“Good.” 

You let out a whine as Crowley continues the light stimulation—tracing patterns along your hips and back, stroking your waist, interspersed with the occasional light smack here and there. In spite of your impatience, though, you can already feel the tension beginning to melt, giving way to pliable muscles and a soft, almost dizzying sense of calm. 

“Patience, patience,” he mutters. When you ignore him, and turn around so that you can have full use of your hands, you quickly find yourself pressed flush against him with your arms held behind your back. “I thought you wanted to be at our mercy today, pet?”

You lean forward in an attempt to close the distance between your lips and his. Unfortunately, his hold on you, though not painfully tight, is rock-solid. You pout. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

He chuckles. “I dunno. What do you think, Angel?”

Even with your gaze firmly fixed on Crowley, out of the corner of your eye you see Aziraphale purse his lips. “Those lips do look like they’re just _waiting_ to be bitten.”

“Hm.” Crowley licks his own lips; your eyes automatically flicker down to watch. When he sees you noticing, he breaks into a grin. “Eager, eager.”

“I just— _oh.”_

That last is in response to the sudden heat and pressure of a mouth of your neck—Aziraphale, having crept up from behind to pay some attention to the sensitive skin. You tip your head back against his shoulder, pressing your hips further into Crowley. You feel his Effort twitch beneath the skintight jeans, and he almost immediately releases your arms from behind your back. You let him pull your arms up around his neck, and at the same time notice the feeling of fabric on your newly bare chest. And you hadn’t even noticed the snap. 

You smile in bliss, biting your own bottom lip in pleasure. “Who’s eager now?” 

Aziraphale chooses this moment to bite deeper, suck harder, both hands winding around your body, and your taunt turns into your most desperate noise yet. 

“I don’t know, pet. You tell me.” You don’t even need to see Crowley’s face to know he’s smirking. “Still green?”

“Mm-hm.” One of Aziraphale’s hands slips down between your legs at the same time Crowley squeezes a generous handful of your ass, and your knees just about give out. “Oh, _God.”_

“Maybe leave Her out of it, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs into your neck, teasing at your entrance with a generous amount of miracled lube. He's at least half serious, you know (though you’d be willing to bet the other half is turned on by the blasphemy). He nips at your earlobe at the same time his finger begins to slide in.

His hand between your legs, Crowley’s fingers toying with your nipples, the heat of being trapped between them both—it’s a lot. Good, but still a lot. You don’t have any words for this, blasphemous or otherwise, and so you settle instead for pressing your lips back against Crowley’s, letting your mouth fall back open against his as your tongues collide. He really does bite your lip, then draws it into his mouth with two teeth so that he can suck on it lightly, swallowing your moan. You feel the stretch of another finger, and the sound becomes a cry—not of pain, but of wanting.

“Fuck it,” Crowley pants when at last you break apart. You rest your forehead against his, your heavy breathing a result of both the kiss and of Aziraphale’s fingers _still fucking inside you._ “Angel. Now.”

You’re not certain when, exactly, he lost all of his clothing from the waist down. You feel the hard, throbbing tip lined up at your entrance, and wiggle in impatience. No luck—your movement is restricted by both Aziraphale’s arms hooked around your waist and Crowley’s hands on your hips.

You nod—once, twice, more desperate than ever now that what you want is so, _so_ close—and then you feel it. The stretch, the slick of it, the feeling of them simultaneously around and inside of you. There is nothing measured about the moan you let out, the air leaving your lungs in one rush of air as you practically melt between them. 

And this, this, _this_ is what you needed. Overwhelmed, enveloped, consumed.

 _Adored_.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You’re barely aware you said it aloud, but your eyes flutter open and you see in Crowley’s amber gaze that he’s heard. He knows, they both do.

Rather than responding with words, he leans in and kisses you. Gentle, soft, once. You use what little strength you have left to pull him back again, before moving your attention to his jaw and neck so that he can kiss Aziraphale behind you. The movement causes the most delicious friction where your bodies meet. From there you’re able to pick up the pace, thrusting to meet each other in earnest, voices intertwining until you're nearly unable to distinguish their moans from your own.

The dizziness has shifted—you’re not sure when, but it has, into a sort of spinning. A hum, that’s it, a humming. Your entire body is singing for them, the vibrations reaching a fever pitch before they break, before _you_ break.

Crowley follows soon after, and you feel the sudden warmth of Aziraphale spending himself onto your bare back. 

There is still motion, but it is slower now. Easier. You, nuzzling into Crowley’s shoulder; Aziraphale, stroking your hip with his thumb; Crowley, reaching to cover Aziraphale’s hand with his. As if to say, _I have you. I’m here. We’re here._

Aziraphale is the first to break the silence. “Are you both alright?”

Crowley laughs at that, still a bit breathless. “Understatement of the century.” He lowers you to the desk, the surface of it cool beneath you, and allows himself to sprawl out across the throne. 

“I’ll say.” You make sure to catch each of their gazes in turn before repeating: “Thank you.”

“You did very well, darling.” Aziraphale perches on the edge of the desk beside you, stroking your hair back and away from your forehead. “So brave, telling us what you wanted.”

“Not so bad, was it?” 

Even lying down, you hear the smirk in Crowley’s voice. Somehow, after everything that’s just transpired, _that’s_ enough to bring a fresh blush to your face. “No.” You close your eyes, tilting your head further into Aziraphale’s touch. “Not bad at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy quarantine! i've had parts of this sitting in my drafts FOREVER and decided to just finish what i could and post it tonight. hope it doesn't feel too rushed!!
> 
> let me know what other things you want to see! because of quarantine, i can't do my job until may at the earliest!! so i truly have SO much time. so if you have requests, there's never been a better time to send em in. :) 
> 
> right now i have in the works: crowley/reader (one fluffy, one smutty), a/c/reader (restaurant time!), and (possiblyyyy) gabriel/reader??? ooooo
> 
> stay safe and healthy


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